“Who is th' Rothschild you will get it from?”
“My father,” replied young Morton, and now he lapsed anew into his manner of vapidity. “Really, he takes an eighth of the preferred at par—one million! I've got the money in the bank, don't y' know!”
“Good!” ejaculated Big Kennedy, with the gleam which never failed to sparkle in his eye at the mention of rotund riches.
“My father doesn't know my plans,” continued young Morton, his indolence and his eyeglass both restored. “No; he wouldn't let me tell him; he wouldn't, really! I approached him in this wise:
“'Father,' said I, 'you are aware of the New York alternative?'
“'What is it?' he asked.
“'Get money or get out.'
“'Well!' said he.
“'Father, I've decided not to move. Yes, father; after a full consideration of the situation, I've resolved to make, say twenty or thirty millions for myself; I have, really! It's quite necessary, don't y' know; I am absolutely bankrupt. And I don't like it; there's nothing comfortable in being bankrupt, it so deucedly restricts a man. Besides, it's not good form. I've evolved an idea, however; there's a business I can go into.'
“'Store?' he inquired.